


Instead

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoption, Age Difference, Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Angst, Bottom Dean, Daddy Kink, Emotional Manipulation, First Time, Guilt, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Top Sam, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original prompt by onlyherefortheslash: Yo woman: Ageswap AU, where really older Sam and his girlfriend brought Dean up because the boys' parents died, few years later, girlfriend leaves and poor 36yo!Sam has a hard time dealing with it for weeks and weeks, one night, falls asleep on the couch and 13yo!Dean finds him with a boner, gives him head Sam wakes up, think it's messed up and finally fucks really hard his baby brother on the couch. Ugh. Sorry not sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onlyherefortheslash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyherefortheslash/gifts).



> This got way… way darker than planned. Whew! Sorry not sorry; I need manipulative younger!dean in my life at all times.

Dad should've read more books about parenting. Sam would know - they had helped Jess and him a lot in the first few years. He had never really been the bear-hug type of father, nor did Sam ever catch or throw a ball in the backyard with him. Still, it had been alright. He had loved the man. And even though John never clearly told him so, he knew that it had been mutual. 

His last moments were shared between the four of them; baby Dean innocently draped in John's horrifically thin arms, Sam by the side of his bed and Mary in that one wedding picture of hers that Sam had always kept in a locket around his neck. 

There were so many things Sam would've wanted to say. That John shouldn't have married again. That Mary'll be super pissed when he'll arrive upstairs and she finds out. That John certainly shouldn't have fathered another child at his age and especially not with a woman barely five years older than his college student of a son. That John shouldn't have fallen ill. That he shouldn't be dying with his one-year-old on his chest. 

But he didn't say any of those things that day. Grabbing the locket tighter a little bit, he tried not to think of anything, of all the questions, the horrors, _his_ horrors about what the future would bring. 

"You'll take good care of your brother, won't cha, Sammy?" 

Of course he would. Anything. Everything. 

"Yessir." 

"That is good." The voice was thin but still it was his dad's. Not hearing it anymore, forever, never again, made everything worse. 

Nothing was good. Not one bit. 

* * *

Jane had run. Dad's taste hadn't been too skilled with that "hunt" of his. Today, Sam figures that maybe John had known about his illness already back then and hadn't been himself. Maybe he had seen his mom in this woman - young, strong, independent, blindingly beautiful; a wild beauty like Sam thinks mom had been at Jane's age. Maybe he had wanted to give Sam a last prove of his love by leaving this little person at his side, a twisted copy, _half-dad_ ; something Sam could grab on and compensate his loss with. 

Jess didn't make too much of a scene about it. Actually, she was quite happy about the "little blessing" as she had called Dean - until he puked all over her Prada dress ten minutes before her graduation speech. "Little devil" it was from then on. But man, did she love the kid. And man, did she love Sam. And, oh dear God, did Sam love her. 

Many years have passed since then. Dean only pukes on occasion now, when there had been too much cheerios or soda or both. Dad's grave is blooming prettily underneath that century-old oak. Jess is prettier than ever, conquering the world with stilettos, lots of lattes and her evolutionary environmental management systems. Sam had seen her on TV last week. Yes, she really looks great. 

When Sam looks around in their house, there are many things; leftovers. Dean's baseball jacket, the bat and ball as well, of course. Two to five pairs of socks (you can't count them if they're separated and spread over the whole floor, really), books, some Sam's, some Dean's. None of Jess'. 

Once more in his life, Sam has been left. 

And even though he sometimes blames himself for both mom's and dad's deaths, this time, yes, this time he doesn't have to think of some hilariously gigantic reasons how and when and why he should have done this or that to prevent what happened. No. Now he knows. He knows exactly. 

Of course she did want children of her own, of course with Sam, of course soon since it doesn't exactly get any better from age thirty-five for a woman. She had waited, waited and waited, begged, excused, cried, yelled, cried some more - and then left. 

He just should have said yes. But something had held him back. Worries. Oh poisonous worries. 

_Dean could smash the baby with his baseball bat, you_ know _he's a dork, Jess. Dean could feel excluded because he's not our_ real _kid. Dean could think we love the baby more than him. Dean could think he was just a pass of time, a "how to raise a kid"-course for us to prepare for the "real" baby._

So many reasons and they were all true. _Are_ all true. Dean always knew they weren't his real mommy and daddy. He didn't need any kids to bully him for it to sometimes throw this particular sad gaze, too sad for such a small child. Nobody knew anyway. The adoption papers were bright and clean and they looked just like a very young, very happy couple. Which they were. Could still be. If just Sam hadn't been so stupid. 

He just should have said yes. _Yes, let's make a baby, I love you, I'd do anything for you._ Like she would have deserved. Like he would have wanted her to feel like; cherished and respected and like a part of him, his goddess, his everything. 

Now, Sam sits in the armchair they once picked out together and where they fitted both; cozy and warm with a book and maybe even Dean on their laps, hot chocolate all over them because the kid's a dork. But they still would have laughed. They had been a family in any meaning of the word, and they had been happy. 

"He isn't YOUR CHILD, for God's sake, Samuel!!" 

He will never forget how he somehow realized, as soon as these words came out of her mouth, that it was over. Just like that. He shouldn't have sealed the deal by turning and leaving her in the middle of the living room without another word. He had heard her breaking down crying. But he hadn't turned. 

And now Sam's alone and the chair is as big as the ocean. 

* * *

"Hey." 

Sam's sleep had always been on the light side; just a few sounds and maybe feather-like touches is all it takes to get him practically sitting up straight in his bed. Naturally, he had been on night-duty for Dean every night ever since they had taken him in. 

His eyes snap open and there he is. The smell of grass and mud reaches Sam before the headache does. A twitch tells him that he shouldn't fall asleep in sat-through armchairs at his age. 

"Oh, hey." Fingers find forehead and knead it, rub the eyes, bordered in violet and blue. He's tired, restless. Has been for weeks. Will be for another weeks. But he has to go to work; Dean needs a roof and food on the table and maybe a new Walkman if the next test isn't as awful as the last one. He tries a smile, only sees blurry. "Hey. Had a good day, Dee?" 

"Would be better if I could watch TV. Move, grandpa." 

Sam laughs. Of course. He gets up and Dean takes his place immediately, knees pulled up under his chin and hands scrambling for the remote. 

"Oh for fuck's sake, Dean; at least change before you- Oh man. Awesome. Mud-stains. I love mud-stains." 

Slumping back into the armchair, Dean smiles, not at Sam directly but Sam knows this one; his sassy one, his winner-smile. Covered in mud and grass and- is that blood? Hopefully his own. Sam's fingers find his eyes again, circle, circle, drop. 

"Yes, you do. I'll drop this into the laundry after the show." He means his absolutely spoiled uniform. Both know it will end everywhere in this house but in the laundry. But Sam leaves it. Too tired. 

"I think I'll, uh, take another nap." 

"When's dinner?" Dean doesn't share his eye contact with anything else but the TV. Jess had been right. They shouldn't have bought this hell of a machine. 

"You hungry?" 

"Not yet, but later." 

"There's sandwiches in the fridge and some lasagna from last weekend, I think…" 

"Uuuuurgh, not again, dad, really, blergh-" 

" _Dean_." He pronounces it sharper than he intended. Dean stares at him with as much shock as he himself is pierced with. "I- uhm- I'm tired. Okay? Please. Just. Just help yourself. We'll eat out tomorrow night, I promise." 

He gets a nod and a thin mouth and that's it. 

Up the stairs and behind his bedroom door, Sam drops face-first into the sheets, doesn't undress, doesn't shuffle into a comfortable position. He doesn't deserve that. 

He dreams of her and how she's so much happier now without him, free at last, without a moody teenager to look after and a whiny boyfriend who doesn't have the balls for anything but fighting claws and teeth for his baby-half-brother. She's so happy. She hates him so much. And this, he deserves.

* * *

"Daddy." 

It's soft; soft fingers on his chest, sliding down over his solar plexus, the hint of once proud abs. 

"Daddy, you up?" 

Sam doesn't have to open his eyes. He sighs a "yes" but doesn't mean it. 

The bed shifts and Dean straddles him, lies down on top of him; like a cover, a sheet. Maybe he's too old for that, fifteen years and a hundred thirty pounds weighing down on him, but damn, Sam'll probably still let this kid have his way when he's forty-five and slowly growing bold. His head fits neatly into the nape of Sam's neck, so Sam holds him there. The kid's warm and smells like fresh laundry. Sam fantasizes he still has that particular milk scent in his hair when he shuffles his nose deep into it. 

"… I can't sleep, daddy." 

"I figured." 

"… Can I sleep with you, daddy?" 

"Of course, Dee." 

"Okay." 

Their hearts bump against each other in perfect unison. Maybe it's dad who rushes through their veins, strong enough to break both of their ribs and melt them into one. If only dad's heart had been as strong as theirs'. 

"I miss mom," Dean sighs, tiny, like he's four again. 

Closing his eyes doesn't stop the tears but at least the darkness of the night will let them remain unseen. 

"Me too," he murmurs, "Me too, Dee." 

* * *

Another week goes by. The world still turns like nothing's changed. Sam still cannot sleep more than a few hours a day. Crashed on the couch again; but it's okay, he went to work, functioned, and Dean is old enough to come home from school on his own. 

He doesn't wake up, the touches too light, even for his sharpened sensibility. 

Drowned in sleep, he mutters her name, imagines her fingers on him, her skilled hands; oh how he misses them. Lived on them for years, on her mouth, her body, her heart and soul, and now it's all gone. But there are fingers there. 

When he comes to, he's alone. Noise from upstairs tell him Dean let himself in, a quick glimpse at the clock says that that was about two hours ago. 

Jeans and shorts go into the laundry; still warm and sticky. Under the shower, Sam wonders in embarrassment when that had last happened to him. Maybe because it feels like an eternity that has passed since then, he doesn't remember. 

* * *

"I'm not your real son, you know, right?" 

Sam's eyes snap open wider than they had any time in the last few weeks. 

"You could have given me away." 

They share a stare, long and painful. Sam's heart is near bursting thanks to the innocence that still lies in the boy's face, something melancholic, something he certainly got from John. 

"Maybe if it hadn't been for me," he continues in a whisper, eyes dropping to his plate where he carefully stabs his breakfast with his fork, "she'd still be here." 

"Dean." It's soft, not a yell, nowhere near that. She always had loved his big hands. Now he drapes one of them over his boy's that look incredible tiny in comparison, even now that he's grown so so much. "Listen to me, alright? None of this. Nothing. Has anything- _anything_ to do with you, got that?" 

There's a nod but Sam can hardly see it. 

"Don't ever think like this. It's not your fault." 

Another nod that Sam doesn't notice - which isn't much of a loss. It isn't an honest one anyway. 

* * *

He had sworn to keep the bottle down this weekend, only this Saturday, so they could have a movie night like they used to. Sam managed only to get as far as brushing his finger over the backs of the VHS' before relapsing into a soft but steady circle of filling and emptying glass after glass while shedding dry tears. Thinking of Dean only hurts right now so he doesn't, doesn't look up when he stomps down the stairs, sees him and immediately turns to run back up. Doesn't care. The world will spin anyway, won't it? 

Out on the couch, he dreams of her again. She smiles at him like she always does before sliding her hands down and into his pants. Sam smiles back. Warmth pools in his stomach, the hands knowing him in and out, having him melt and sigh and fly underneath the firm grip of theirs. But oh, her lips; how he's missed them - but now they're back, the softness almost forgotten, but back now, finally. Mumbling words of praise and love, he wants to shuffle his fingers through her hair, those beautiful locks of an angel that she hated to maintain but he loved to run his fingers through and get tangled, caught; like she had caught him, his heart. But his arms are too heavy somehow, not being aware of it all being a dream, just a dream. 

He slowly comes to, blinks through heavy lashes. Moonlight from the blinds, room empty but for him. His hand slips into his pants. It's still wet from spit.

* * *

 Since he could think, Sam had always been an analyst. Curious, nosy - _what's this plant, daddy; who's that guy, daddy?; how do planes work, daddy?_ Even though dad barely ever knew an answer, Sam always found out, one way or another. No truth was hidden from him for long. 

When he found out about dad's diagnosis, he took off from college for a semester and dug up everything and anything he could find about it and possible cures; hell, even the _hint_ of a cure. Everything above forty percent surviving rate was worth his time. But nothing, _nothing_ would work. 

"There are things that cannot be stopped," John told him when Sam had once again sat beside him by his bed, crying, helpless, sorry, so so sorry, "It happens and sometimes that's okay. I will be okay. You will be okay. Sometimes, this is how life goes." 

Now, for the first time in his life, Sam doesn't want to find out. 

Doesn't want to think about it, to spend only one shattered piece of a second on speculations, theories, possibilities. Closes his eyes, doesn't ask. It's too much. He can't. 

Maybe he's just getting old. There's only so much change and insanity a man can handle, right? 

The dreams' aftertaste changes from cozy to sour after a few weeks. Never does he really see, really grasp; gazes into Jess' eyes and tells her he loves her more than anything and she is good to him like he needs it. Always comes to when everything is long over. It barely gets messy anymore, everything's nice and clean when he checks. Maybe if it had been like this from the start, he wouldn't have noticed? Wouldn't have to think about what- doesn't. Closes his eyes again. 

Sam's sleeping pattern slowly returns to normal after three months. 

* * *

"Aren't you mad at me?" 

An eyebrow is raised but the veggies need to be cut, so he doesn't show it to him. "Do your homework and I won't be." 

"No. Dad." 

Sam feels eyes pierce right through him and the blood drains from his face. 

"I mean. Because of her." 

"Dee, it isn't-" 

"Don't lie to me, dad, just. Just don't." 

He has to turn around now, opens his mouth to speak as he does- almost twirls into his son right at his heels. Didn't hear him; how could he move this quietly? "For FUCK'S SAKE, Dee! Don't scare me like-" 

"It's my fault she's gone. My fault you're alone, _Sam_." 

He blinks, tongue dry and useless in his throat, blood and stomach acids dancing in his guts. "D-don't. Don't call me that, Dean. You know I don't like that." 

"But it's your name." Innocence blinds, hides all the tiny messages Sam later identifies as so much more than what he'd wanted to see, to believe. 

"But I'm your dad, Dean-" 

"No, you are fucking NOT." 

It's like thunder through his body. Fortunately, behind him there's the kitchen counter for support. Sam slumps down against it. "Why do you say things like this?" He frowns, voice hurt, tiny. He begs to God Dean doesn't come closer. Three steps between them, and it's almost too little. 

"Cause it's true, Sam." 

"Don't-"

"She left because of me. Cause I'm a pain in the ass. Cause she's tired of you spending so much time with me instead with her." 

"No, Dean, please; just listen, I-" 

"Cause you didn't want _another_ baby in this house." 

They stare. Dean's sad, incredible sad, Sam can tell, _only he_ can really tell. Looks so much like dad. It hurts, fucking hurts right down to the bone and deeper. He doesn't have any words for him right now. 

"See?" 

One step. Sam's blood freezes. 

"I was right." 

Two. Sweat pools in the tiny hollow between his shoulder blades. 

"You're blaming me, aren't you? Sam?"  

Warmth radiates, green stares. The knife in his fingers feels not any more lifeless than the rest of his body. 

"I know. See? I know." He reaches out and Sam is too stiff to even flinch. Fingers trace from his collar bones over the necklace down to the locket, presses it into his skin. "I know I messed it up. I made her leave. I made you sad." 

"You didn't," Sam repeats, slow like the drag of his boy's hands over his chest, the white button-up still on from work but popped open around the neck. 

"Oh, I did." 

So close they share oxygen, Sam recognizes his own perfume on Dean. It smells so different on his skin. _Muskier_. The word knocks into his stomach like the press of groin to groin, jean to jeans, too close, too very close, but he can't move. 

"I did, _Sam_. And I am so sorry. So so sorry. I just wanna make you happy again, _daddy_. Wanna clean up the mess I made." 

"Don't have to," Sam mutters somewhere into blond hair that barely yet tickles his nose; he's still so tiny, oh God, his Dee, his _baby_ \- 

"Wanna make you happy like she did," Dean tells into his chest before he drops to his knees. 

Breathing had never been this unimportant. 

Dean looks sad while he unbuckles the belt, pops the buttons, all while staring up. The strange kind of sad like when he "caught" Sam and Jess cuddling without him on the armchair; all before inviting him in, of course - but still. 

"I'll make it right. I swear I'll make it right, daddy. _Sam_." Palm rubbing over clothed, limp flesh quickly turns into hand gripping fattening dick. Sam stopped thinking somewhere in between, eyes downwards, still, looking but not really _seeing_. Not seeing Dean's expression turn into something else, different. "I'll be good," Dean promises softly and blinks at the dick he pulls out of briefs right in front of his face. 

Before lips connect with raging red tip, Sam's head tips upwards and he stares at the ceiling instead of his son between his legs. 

* * *

Sam tells Dean he shouldn't crawl into his bed anymore. Dean does anyway. Sam tells Dean to stop shoving his hands down his pants. Dean does anyway. Sam tells Dean he doesn't want to come in his mouth. Dean makes him anyway. 

Cold, stiff are his movements if there are any to begin with. Shifts in his position, the boy like waves of warm water all over him somehow, always. Doesn't dare to look, watch; has to listen but that's all he allows himself. 

"See? You like it, Sam." Sam doesn't have to look to know Dean's smiling, whispering these sweet words of nonsense whenever he pops his dick out of his mouth to catch his breath. "I'll make up for making her leave. I can be your girlfriend instead of her, right?" 

The fact that he never fails to remain hard through all of it and in the end always, _always_ comes, has Sam rest- and sleepless once more. 

* * *

Soft droplets of water - they're dangerous. Without notice, they'll break you. Steady, soft, warm words, touches. It's just like that that Sam's hands slowly come alive again; no, _for the first time_. Travel up from the sheets to his thighs, touch Dean's forearms with the slightest of pressure and Dean's eyes immediately shoot up to his face. For the first time, Dean doesn't pop up to say something, just smiles, a smile like on Christmas Eve, eyes so sparkling green and wet it sends warmth even down to Sam's toes. Before he swallows him down to the base again, Dean lets out a small laugh. Sam sighs. _Happy_. 

* * *

The first real kiss he gives Dean is strange, spontaneous, not planned through; desperate. Dean had been in his lap for an hour, just grinding down, his shorts riding up into his crack; Sam knew because he had glimpsed over his shoulder. Like this, the armchair isn't empty anymore, the lack of yet another person forgotten over breathless gasps from both of them, overpowering the annoying TV sounds from whatever program was on when Dean decided to start torturing him like this. 

Dean hadn't kissed him, hadn't dared, not on the mouth. Cheeks, neck, chest, arms, fingers, belly, toes. But not the mouth. 

Hands on his boy's hips, holding and moving him at the same time, his fingers slip sometimes, slip around, deeper, pinch thick flesh. Dean just gasps and then chuckles, doesn't move his hands or his mouth anywhere Sam would want, _need_ them right now. 

So he kisses, lips pressing on lips, tongue darting out, and he lets him in _, of course he does_. So he licks, around and in and out and underneath and on top, tongue or gums or teeth, just tastes, searches for familiars but just finds news; soda and chocolate and damn he should take the boy to the dentist again soon. 

Dean plays by his rules, moves back against him, licks and sucks as well, moans between their open mouths, louder and louder by the minutes that just pass right by them. He sure is a good catcher with legs like that, Sam thinks absently while Dean's practically bouncing on his dick now, which is neglected and trapped in his dress-pants and long beyond dripping wet. 

When he takes a bite of Dean's bottom lip, his hand glides over sweaty back down Dean's shorts, one rude slide from tailbone right down to his hole. Dean comes in his pants almost immediately at that and Sam has to muffle his groans by shoving his tongue so deep down his throat he won't have to pay another doctor to take a look at his tonsils for the next few months. 

His index finger just rests there, doesn't even press down anywhere near hard, but Dean grinds, whines, while Sam's simply amazed by the heat it bleeds onto his skin, rubs it just to get it closer into his flesh and Dean breaks free and moans again, right into his face, like a freaking porn star. "Yes, daddy, please, _please_ ; do it, fucking _do it_ , I'll take it, please!" 

Without knowing what exactly he's asked for, Sam groans himself when he slips in dry to the first joint and Dean jumps in his hands. Something's changed. Dean's desperate now all of a sudden, real desperate, humps backwards on his finger, which wasn't exactly the plan for any of this. Confused, Sam pulls out and leaves Dean whining, kisses him to shut the pitiful sounds from his ears. Dean stopped moving altogether, just breathes against his lips, moist and heavy, when Sam withdraws from the kiss. He undoes his own pants while they stare at each other, heads dizzy. For the first time, Sam talks during a situation like this. For the first time takes _initiative_ , even. 

"Come on." 

Dean understands, naturally; of course. Grinds his hips down; wet fabric on wet, naked dick; once, twice- Their lips seal just in time to now swallow Sam's moans. 

* * *

When Sam dreams now, it isn't Jess anymore who takes care of him. He doesn't tell Dean not to crawl into his bed and doesn't complain or worry anymore. Months passing by form new habits, it seems. 

They share pajamas; as in Sam wears the bottom only and Dean the top only. It had been Dean's idea and Sam couldn't have said no while thinking about how Jess and him used to do that in their early twenties. There aren't flowers on the nightstand like how Jess liked and kept it, but there's Dean's new Walkman and his headphones and about a dozen cassettes. If he'd had to tell when his son had slept in his own room for the last time, Sam wouldn't know what to say. 

Still half-asleep, Dean shuffles in his arm and slowly develops a humping motion against Sam's hip. Enough to make Sam blink alive, realize what's going on and pepper kisses on the top of Dean's head with a chuckle. Dean smiles into his armpit and makes a deep, content sound. This has become usual; _normal_. Sam doesn't dare to question it. 

Sam effortlessly rolls him on top of him, legs parted over one of his own, teenage dick trapped between teenage belly and almost-forty-year old thigh. Just how Dean likes it. He never actually said it, but Sam knows. Dean raises his head to kiss and then restarts the slow rhythm of his hips. 

"Slept well?" Sam asks with a smile as sunny as the day outside behind the blinds. He never noticed when exactly he re-learned to smile like this, but it was Dean who made him. And that's all he needs to know. 

Dean's approving sound could be a purr, judged by the way it vibrates through both their chests. Once, these hands were hers, but now they roam over _his_ broad back - oh, that delicate little dip just underneath adorable dimples - and fully cover one globe each. Sam pulls them apart slightly and Dean's voice hitches; he frowns while Sam's smile widens and he kisses Dean again, softly, lets his palms scrape and circle over this sensitive flesh. He's calm while he does it since he knows it has Dean speech- and powerless when he does it, has him melt and bend in his hands; knows that this is what Dean wants him to do. This is his role now. 

A thousand tiny, teasing kisses turn into wet and sloppy ones. The cheeks pressed against his own tell Sam that Dean's slowly coming alive in all sorts of ways; blood rushing at the speed of light to fulfill all needs. He's leaking already, right there against his leg. Sam didn't take note of when it had himself follow suit and spill his first drop of precome against his pants and belly as well. 

"Please" is Dean's first word of the day. It could one day be fatal for Sam to be appeased so easily by his boy's begging but for now, he'd let it be. What counts is now and here, and now and here Dean needs him. 

One hand pulling apart, the other one dipping lower. Index finger rubs down on it immediately and Dean didn't expect it and groans, plays with the locket around Sam's neck like Sam plays with his asshole. One habit had been there for years, the other one is only four times fresh. 

They kiss and move in tandem, like nothing's ever been different. The closeness is still strange, new, but Sam feels like he could get used to it eventually. It seems to be what Dean wants, after all. 

"Wanna make you feel good, too," Dean pouts against his mouth, lips already fat and pink before eight 'o clock on this Sunday morning. He fiddles with the necklace, face twitching now and then every time Sam's finger changes pattern. The nervousness is untypical. 

"I am. I am not your son, you know? You know that, right, Sammy?" 

_But my brother_ , Sam thinks but stays silent, watches freckles being fanned by thick lashes and remains an anchor for restless green which is searching for words, obviously. 

"Not your kid. You can. I mean. You can _fuck_ me, you know?" 

Sam's finger stills. Dean panics. 

"You- I am- You like doing all this stuff with me, right? You did it with her too, right?" 

He tries to start. "Dean-" 

"I can do it too! I can replace her for you, daddy. I can- Let me. I wanna make you happy like she did. You can do me like you did her. Take _me_ instead." 

Against his finger, Dean moves backwards in a silent beg to continue, to be touched. Sam just stares with his mouth open, all words drained from him through the ones his boy spills so easily, as if they didn't tear him apart, like he doesn't know what he asks of Sam. 

"Dean," he repeats; is kissed, once. It smacks loudly. Dean grabs his face with both hands, nudges their noses together, keeps his eyes on his ones through it all. 

"Sam." It's only a whisper, sweet little whisper. "Sam. I know you're lonely. You don't have to be. I'm right here. I'll take care of you, okay? I can take her place, trust me. Let me replace her. Please." 

"… Knew 'd be trouble one day," Sam mutters through peppered kisses; kisses back. He curses the fact that he's butter in these hands, his boy's voice, face, body, everything. Slowly, his hips come alive again against Dean's. 

"I'll be good." Breath hisses through teenage teeth at the press of fingertip against pucker. "I'll be good, daddy, I'll be good for you; 'll take care 'f your dick, just like her, yes? Okay? Y'can pound me like you did with her, you can do anything; I'll let you-" Sam kisses him silent, licks, chews, has Dean panting into his mouth and vice versa with his hands on his ass, finger rubbing, pressing, almost breaching the rim, almost- 

Dean breaks free and he's trembling like a pile of leaves. A mess. Just a messy little boy. "I won't ever leave you," he gasps, Sam's face still in his hands, lips so close they're practically still kissing. Doesn't let go. "Won't leave you." 

Innocence falls from Dean's face when Sam's finger pushes in, has him whining at the burn, but he kisses the stupid mouth shut; such a stupid mouth, spilling careless things without knowing their meanings; oh, how Sam knows he's played with like a fiddle - but doesn't care. Pushes in deeper, savors the boiling heat inside of this offering he was made just now, dick violently jumping in his pants, demanding his share already before the head even clearly understood what just happened, what probably _will_ happen next. Many years later he'll eventually get to confess to himself that he simply didn't _want_ to know it to be real. 

"L-lube," Dean wheezes, eyes tight in pain, but Sam just stares, watches his face jump with cruel patience. 

"Don't have any," he excuses, wriggles his finger, chases Dean's mouth as the boy tries to sit up, pressing up and away from Sam's chest. 

"I- I put some in the- oh shi- t-the drawer, for fuck's sake, S-Sam, the drawer, _please_!" 

Sam kisses, eats up, his free hand blindly reaching over the bed where Dean wants him to search; finds it, squeezes it right down to where he needs it. Before Dean can finish his relieved sigh, he chokes as Sam goes down, up to the knuckle. 

"Yes," he pants, ignores Sam's effort to get him into another kiss, halfway up on his elbows, crushing Sam's lungs that don't care, "Yes, oh, _shit_ , Sam, Sammy, daddy, yes. Like that. More. Come on, more, daddy, pl-" Another squeezes in, almost impossible but Sam manages and Dean yelps, head thrown back into his neck. Sam sucks at it, presented neatly like a present; has to. Jess always loved this. Especially in college when she didn't have too much of a reputation to loose over hickeys. 

"Gonna make me nice and loose for your cock, Sammy?" Sam grunts, bites, shoves in deeper, heart drumming against the empty side of his boy's chest. Dean's breathing is so hard that he can feel it shuffle his hair. "Wet and loose, daddy, like a _girl_? Nice wet cunt around your-" 

Curses at the third. It almost hurts Sam himself, the drag so slick, fingers crammed impossibly tight; _doesn't it hurt?_ \- _doesn't hurt when it's with you_. Dean whines, thin, no air, body struggling, pushes back onto the fingers, voice hitching, _really like a girl like this_ , and Dean just chants endless strings of _yes_ into his mouth, so much they should suffocate on them together, through kisses and rough yanks of Sam's wrist. The sounds are obscene, Sam almost forgot about how much they turned him on; Jess was so easy to get dripping wet, the two of them working together like a clockwork in bed. 

He's never done anal with Jess, she just never really was into it. He doesn't exactly know what to expect or what to do or what to pay attention to, so basically he does it like he knows a woman maybe would like to be fingered. Dean seems to like it so he's confidently going on. Somehow, despite the little space he has to work with, he gets to scissor index and middle finger and Dean _sobs_ on his cheek. Fingers not stilling, never ever again, Sam cranes his neck, crunches his upper body up to see where he's working; sees pink, glistening flesh, almost comes into his pajamas. 

With a deep rumbling growl, he rolls them over, Dean on his back and Sam kneeling in between his legs. His free hand grabs the back of the knee on his left and pulls it up, right up to the boy's shoulder, presses it down there. Dean sobs again, now because Sam curls his fingers inside, jams upwards and can literally watch the tears build up in his son's eyes. "Yes," he cries, hugging his own knee to his chest with one and pulling Sam's head down to his own with the other hand, "Yes, do it; please!" 

Sam shushes and then kisses, slow and deep with crushing force; just like his hips want to work right about now. Shudders right underneath his skin when he pulls his fingers out tell him he should be more careful, that he's too fast, but Dean's mouth and body don't seem to be connected; the mouth begging for more while the body's probably still too tight to- Doesn't allow himself to think, just wants, sanity long gone. Dean wants. Dean needs. So Sam'll do his job, right? 

By the time he's finally pulled down his pants, he's absolutely positive he won't last any longer than a dozen seconds; not like this. He lines up while he still kisses, eats up the sounds Dean makes when they bump together down there; strangled, like a puppy, left alone for two minutes too long. "Put it in," Dean begs in a whisper while Sam has the rationality to apply some lube on himself now. Two slow drags of his loose fist are almost enough to make him come. They're both shaking. Sam can't speak. "Please. Want you to fuck me. _Please_." Sam just grunts, slides sticky tip against stickier entrance. "I promise I'll be as good as Je-" 

Air cut off for both of them and it's Sam's fault as he shoves right in, curls his toes and tightens all muscle in his body in order not to let his orgasm hit him just now; no, not yet. It's easy to slide in and then _deep_ , despite the tight ring of muscle bearing down with still too much force to let it pass by painless for Dean, but he'd said it was alright, right? Sam bottoms out with a forgotten amount of air that he punches from his lungs. They stare at each other, amazed, in wonder, like they just woke up from an insane nightmare. Sam's not so sure any of this here can be real whatsoever. 

Slowly, with as much concentration as he can bring himself to, Sam moves his hips, the pressure and pull incredible on his skin, every vein, the ridges and bumpy line of the head scraping and catching every possible tiny piece of flesh along its way that he's sure he'll go insane. Dean's mouth softens into a loose "o" while his eyes stay tight. 

"Hurts?" 

Dean makes a sound that very distantly reminds of a "no". 

Sam drops his head to press his lips onto cheek, forehead, eyelids, corners of mouth; remains hunched over like this, nose to nose, lips almost touching, almost, while he pushes deep before pulling out almost completely, and then repeats. Savors the sounds, drowns in the waters around and in Dean's eyes, wide and open for him to dive right in, like he does with his body. 

"Won't last," he chokes out, thighs trembling by now under the effort and tension they have to carry this poor old body through. Too old for such gymnastic things, maybe. 

It's like an invitation when Dean rubs the back of Sam's neck, like one'd do with a horse or dog to calm it down. "Y-you- you can- I-inside, Sammy," he hiccups under heavier and heavier slaps of skin against skin; the way he stares up at Sam could give one the idea that it's rather a beg than an allowance, "Won't get p-pregnant-" The word feels like daggers to his chest; just enough to drag out the intense build of tension between his legs for another few seconds. 

Now he fucks, really fucks, pace building quick and quicker, too quick, until Dean mewls, yes, _like a girl_ , until it rushes through his body; oh sweet relief. Open mouth on open mouth, they witness it happen together, Sam's dick all but a spilling and pulsing mess, enough force to really _jump_ in place inside of Dean, emptying in thick spurts that he is sure the boy can feel shoot against his insides just as well. 

They pant, sweat dripping from Sam's nose onto Dean's. Eyes connected. After what feels like a minute of a break, Sam picks up where he left of, the feeling insane, way too sensitive, but he feels like he has to. Together they moan, Dean sounding surprised, _didn't expect that, huh?_ \- _no, didn't_. 

The sheets will be a mess but Sam can barely think of anything but where he fucks into; sweet and dirty and incredible tight teenage boy ass, his baby boy's, _his baby's_ , filled to the brim with his come but doesn't care if this is sloppy seconds, sucks at him like the greedy thing that his son would typically come up with. Sam cannot remember the last time he's been able to do this, two times in a perfect row, still hard and ready to go. In high school maybe. Maybe that one time Jess wore that incredible dress to that party and they left for the car and, oh God, Sam could never ever again walk past this one parking lot without getting a very awkward and very resistant boner. 

With his hips tilted upwards, it's easy to make Dean scream; even easier when he pins the second knee in place in addition to the first and ravishes what he's offered so kindly. Sam doesn't actually stop when come hits his chin and Dean clamps down on his dick even more, squirms as much as the position allows. His boy cries for _dad, daddy, Sammy_ , all three of them, inseparable and all of them spreading him on their twelve inches of cock like he's a fucking rubber toy, dripping and wet like she'd used to be; like it was supposed to be. 

He comes a second time and almost passes out from that, absolutely not used to such intense things anymore. Of course he'd known a kid would drain their sex life but no one had told him that with a kid like Dean, it was practically impossible to get any time alone at all. It was a shame, especially since Jess really was open for it almost as often as Sam was. Now, he barely succeeds to drop to the side and not right onto his boy; has to slip out real fast for that and Dean yelps at it. A "sorry" and he's in the pillows, face-first, exhausted, empty, done. Dean immediately presses up to him, rolls onto his side so he can drape his left arm right over Sam's back; as far as he can reach, at least. 

"Fuck. Dad. Made me come three times." Dean smiles and kisses, lazy, without tongue, maybe just enjoys the smacking sound through their still restless breathings. 

"Yeah," Sam mumbles without really knowing what exactly he's saying, nor does he even remember if that really happened - but that doesn't matter now. He kisses back, rubs his left palm over sweat-slick skin, slides underneath the pajama shirt, up the ribs, and down again, until past the hipbone. 

"Was good?" 

"Yeah," Sam whispers. 

"Y'liked it?" 

"Yeah." He kisses, smiles. The baby sentence structure should annoy him by now. Surprisingly, it doesn't. It doesn't come to him that Dean could ask these stupid questions out of pure lack of knowledge or sexual experiences. That this right now was Dean's first time doesn't cross his mind until the kid casually drops it during another very filthy flow of words a few weeks later. 

"Good as her?" 

The smile only drops so little that Sam's sure Dean won't make a scene about it. "Yeah." 

"Better?" 

He's silent. Sighs. 

"Okay. Okay, I, uhm. Next time, I'll-" 

" _Dean_." 

"… yeah?" 

"Dean. It's okay. It's alright. It's just- I think you broke me. I can't think straight." 

The boy laughs nervously, is kissed, hums against his lips. "You can do it again anytime," he offers, eyes like on Christmas Eve again, full of so much love it would bring tears to Sam's eyes if he weren't this exhausted and fucked out of every liquid, "Anytime, really. Just bend me and fuck me. Like today. I'll be good. I'll make you forget about her. 'll be better than her, promise. 'll make you happy, daddy. 'll make up for everything." 

With the choice of words changing, Sam blinks at his son, a little worried. "'S not your fault. Never was." Thumb strokes cheek. Dean stares back at him, expression unchanged, gleams. "I love you, Dean. You know that, right?" 

"Forever?" 

"Forever." 

"If you love me…" The words are slow, whispered, like a lullaby, like Jess used to talk to him about all the little things of life when he was half-asleep and she was securely nestled into her arms. "If you love me, daddy… then call me what you called her." 

Sam's heart stumbles. Maybe it's been broken, long broken, and all the little ties that hold it together lie here, between the two of them; the only ones left. Dad crosses his mind and he immediately shuts him out again, cannot bear the image of their father's face if he'd known where this promise from all those years ago would end in today. 

"Say it." 

His lips part. His tongue doesn't want to move. Jess is hard to suppress in the back of his head, the way her eyes beamed when he called her by nicknames, especially the one he knows Dean means. They are so hard to be layered over by Dean's, her beautiful, beautiful eyes. Suddenly, he misses her so badly he could cry. 

"Say it, Sam." 

"Baby," he whispers. In his mind, he tries to let their images switch places until it doesn't feel like betrayal. He won't succeed in this for another handful of years. 

Dean's smile broadens. Sam's heart aches. 

"My baby."


End file.
